


Deep Mexican Summer

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Canon, Spoilers, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-07-03
Updated: 2004-07-03
Packaged: 2018-12-26 17:41:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12063882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: And that's when he realizes: *he* isn't the one playing catch-up here.  For Rhiannonhero's Summer Title Challenge.





	Deep Mexican Summer

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

Justin turned 27 this year, and he still can’t keep up with Brian. He knows what their friends would say if he shared that thought, knows they would laugh and leer, and that Ted and probably Michael would make cracks something to the effect of didn’t he mean he couldn’t keep up with Brian _anymore_? And why would he even try?

But the truth is that he’s never been running in the same race as Brian Kinney, and now he realizes he never will.

Brian, at 39, is still the god Justin proclaimed him a decade ago. There may be a few strands of silver in the ever-so-slightly thinning hair; but if there are, Justin is the only one who looks closely enough to catch a glimpse of them in the muted light haloing their bed. His body is still toned and firm, and he can still spend hours in the back room of Babylon and wake up fresh at 5:00 a.m. for another day at the helm of Kinnetik, now the top ad agency in the state.

But Justin rises more slowly after a late night. He spends the day fighting to stay awake and drinking coffee with near-desperation as he goes over the latest art proofs, tweaking colors and designs for Brian’s noon presentation or sketching the story board for the Rage sequel in between catnaps behind his desk. Sometimes, if it’s a slow day, Justin staggers from his office at 1:00 p.m., eyes still gritty from last-call, and yawns as he waves to Brian on his way out the door.

Brian always nods, amused, an affectionate smirk on his face as he swivels in his chair, headset mic in place as he lines up the latest client begging for the Kinney Magic.

On those afternoons, he stops by the park if the weather will allow, sketchbook in hand as he lazes away the hours drawing the outlines of his next piece, or simply flooding the pages with random images as the world flows past. Brian’s eyes, heavy with sex and sleep. Gus laughing for no particular reason. Debbie’s smile stretched from ear to ear. These are his waking dreams, the pictures his mind returns to again and again when he’s too tired to think and too exhausted to sleep.

He stays home more nights than not. Most of the time Brian gets sent off with nothing more than a kiss, but occasionally Justin fabricates a reason.

_Michael needs the new outline sketches by next week so he can draft the character profiles for Keller, and get it all in the mail._

_I’m working on a new piece for the gallery, and Lindsay needs the color palette specs by Thursday so she can plan for placement for the show._

_I’ve got an early meeting with the art department tomorrow to go over the new Brown Athletics campaign, and I want to finish proofing the boards_.

He doesn’t usually make excuses, though, because when he does, Brian goes... still, and something flickers in his eyes that Justin doesn’t want to examine too closely. Something like regret.

That look scares Justin more than anything. More than the tremors in his hand that still plague him and seem to grow stronger, to last just a little longer with every year. More than the hacking cough that sends Debbie home during the Pittsburgh winter. More, even, than the cancer that once infected their lives, changing Brian forever in a way that didn’t matter at all.

He wonders what that look means, wonders if Brian regrets being tied to the persistent trick who never went away, who stays at home while Brian goes out, and who lies in their bed, softly snoring, when Brian returns, flushed and beautiful, sparkling with sexual energy.

It’s not that he begrudges Brian those nights, or the pleasure of mindless, meaningless sex in the dark, sweaty corners that he used to hunt as well. Brian tricks for pleasure, for the simple, pristine beauty of the faceless form and voiceless mouth. Justin understands that, welcomes it, even, as the never tired-of proof of Brian’s indomitable health. It’s not even jealousy. Though he admits to momentary twinges now and then when the aging King of Babylon slinks into bed alone, exhausted, and falls asleep before his head hits the pillow when the clock has yet to strike midnight. He just wonders if, sometimes, Brian wishes for someone younger, with more vitality, with better looks, with more to offer than warm arms and a heart he’s owned since “hello”.

Justin knows what Brian would say if he ever told him his fears. He imagines the incredulous snort and the wry _What the fuck are you talking about?_ that would greet his revelation. But he also knows the flash of anger he would see, and the slight tenseness in the body not yet willing to concede that it was more than convenience that kept Justin in his loft, and in his heart, all these years.

So Justin doesn’t tell, and doesn’t ask, and finds himself lying on the sofa, head tipped back wearily to rest on the arm when Brian sits wordlessly beside him. His legs are lifted and settled unceremoniously over Brian's lap, and he smiles softly as he feels Brian's hands rub slowly down his calves.

“How would you feel about a trip to Acapulco tomorrow?”

The question is so unexpected that Justin actually sputters a bit, head flying upright and eyes snapping open to stare at Brian in shock. Sure, they’ve taken trips together over the years, usually thinly disguised business ventures laced with a bit of frivolity here and there, but this--

“Acapulco? But... I didn’t know we had any accounts based there.”

Brian smiles, tongue tip peeking between his teeth in the boyish grin that Justin still finds irresistible to this day, head shaking back and forth in a tsking motion.

“We don’t.”

The humor in Brian’s voice is infectious, and Justin feels himself smiling widely as Brian shifts, nudging him further into the corner and stretching out above him, arms braced to keep his weight suspended as he presses slow, wet kisses over Justin’s mouth.

Brian lowers himself to his elbows, bringing their chests flush as he licks a hot, slick path down the line of Justin’s jaw, nipping gently along his pulse. His hands card through long, golden strands. Justin moans softly, arousal sparking as always at Brian’s touch, Brian’s taste, the warm, musky scent of his skin. It's a short trip to the bed, though it seems endless when it means releasing Brian long enough to shed his clothes.

Soon, the reasons for the trip are lost in a haze of sweat and sex, buried in his mind as surely as Brian’s cock is buried deep in his ass, their hands clasped on the wrinkled duvet as Brian fucks him into oblivion.

He’s barely awake the next morning when Brian rolls him out of bed, hustling him into the already running shower and bracing him beneath the warm spray as he half-heartedly soaps and rinses. There are clothes laid out on the foot of the bed when he emerges, his hair still dripping and towel knotted loosely around his waist. He slips the worn knit shirt over his head and steps into the baggy jeans, scooting one foot after the other into old athletic shoes as Brian carries their bags to the door. He has a moment to worry about what might be packed, and to wonder when Brian found the time, but then he’s being ushered out the door, toast and coffee in hand, and they’re on their way to the airport.

He falls asleep before the plane finishes taxiing away from the terminal. The entire flight is spent dozing against Brian’s shoulder. He rouses only to take a sip of Brian’s soda, for once devoid of its usual Jim Beam accompaniment, and to make a trip to the small, cramped bathroom.

Brian talks to him periodically, seeming to know when he’s awake enough to listen but never asking for more than a “hmmmm” of acknowledgment. There is mention of food, and dancing, and tanning under the blue sky of the deep Mexican summer, but the things he is used to hearing – the rhapsodic plans for spring and fall collections, the anticipated evenings of clubbing and sex, the exotic nightlife – are noticeably absent. He frowns, trying to wake up enough to ask why, to question the strange omissions, knowing that something is amiss and too asleep to censor the impulse to ask, but Brian quiets him, kissing his slack lips before they can form the words and urging him back to sleep with a warm palm against his cheek, chilled in the cabin air.

When they land, Brian pushes him ahead out of the plane and into the blinding sun, wordlessly handing him a pair of sunglasses and smiling as he stops, tilting his head back for a moment to bask in the breeze. The taxi takes them straight to the hotel, and thirty minutes later they are lounging under a canopy on the patio, clothes shed in favor of robes, the surf pounding rhythmically as the cabana boy rolls the food tray between them.

Justin feels his chaise lounge dip, feels the press of Brian’s thigh along his, and opens his lips in response to the cool strawberry begging for entrance. After another berry, a succulent slice of melon, and a bite of sharp cheddar he musters the energy to sit upright and finish his half of the light meal with his own two hands. The rest of the day passes languorously, time marked only by the whisper of the breeze, and the pounding of the surf. He’s dimly aware when Brian shifts the canopy to shield him from the sun, Brian’s own golden flesh bronzing as the light worships him.

The next morning he wakes, refreshed, invigorated in a way he’s almost forgotten. Brian is awake beside him, a small smile teasing at the corner of his lips, and Justin suddenly knows why they’re here, why they’re not visiting the fashion districts of Milan, or combing the architecture of Rome, or touring the museums of Paris.

They’re here for him to rest, to rejuvenate, for both of them to spend time together away from the hustle and grindstone of the lives they wouldn’t trade for anything else. He looks into Brian’s eyes, kissing him as the morning light filters through the open windows, and that’s when he realizes; *he* isn't the one playing catch-up here. Maybe they’re both running the same race after all, and maybe he’s always been winning.

But he thinks that Brian is finally catching up, and he has never been happier to concede defeat.


End file.
